


but that will never be enough

by lost_onway (orphan_account)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Broken Katniss Everdeen, Depression, F/M, fucked up kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25418629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lost_onway
Summary: In which Katniss is a little more broken than they think
Relationships: Haymitch Abernathy & Katniss Everdeen, Haymitch Abernathy/Katniss Everdeen, Katniss Everdeen & Peeta Mellark
Kudos: 28





	but that will never be enough

**Author's Note:**

> The song is Ribs, by Lorde.

_The drink you spilt all over me_   
_'Lover's Spit' left on repeat_   
_My mom and dad let me stay home  
_ _It drives you crazy, getting old_ _  
_

* * *

Peeta. Peeta. Peeta.

She breathes the name over and over in her mind, her eyes shut and her thoughts drawing him in her mind. She was never an artful person, but he-

Peeta. Peeta. Peeta.

She loves him. She does not. But she does, and she doesn't and she _should_.

The bow is taut in her hands, her arm stiff from the strain. The fog stretches across the lake, reeling closer to her with every change of the wind. The rabbit hides, somewhere under the bushes of green. She does not know if it will appear again, but she feels an odd responsibility for the arrow hung on the bow.

She must fire. No, she must not.

She must have done so, she realizes, when she blinks and there is a rustle of movement from under the tall oak tree. She lowers the bow slowly, steps forward, and the rabbit darts away, gone and gone and gone.

She makes a decision, that moment.

* * *

No, she does not.

Her knuckles are white, grabbing the back of the chair and it feels forced, awkward, and she finds no words.

Peeta peers at her. "What?"

Choices weren't something that she had had. She had been born, she had lost her father, she had survived and she had volunteered, because she would not have lived anyway if Prim had died. And she had thought winning, having a _future,_ would mean something. She had thought she would have choices.

But she does not, not even now.

She gives a shake of her head. "Nothing," she says. "Sorry fo-for, bothering you."

He frowns, knows obviously it is not nothing, but doesn't say anything as she leaves, footfall heavy against the wooden floor. She wants to have a choice. And Peeta, can _never_ be a choice.

* * *

_We can talk it so good_   
_We can make it so divine_   
_We can talk it good_   
_How you wish it would be all the time_

* * *

It's a thud in her heart. It's a moment, of silence, of broken glass shards and blood dripping cuts.

And there's also the music.

Prim loves the radio, something they wouldn't have even dreamed of back in the Seam, plays it constantly. There is capitol agenda spilling from a few stations, but Prim doesn't listen to that. She listens to the one with _songs_ , playing on and on with no pauses.

Most of it is banshee screaming. Others, they dance to.

She closes her eyes, feels that skipped beat in her heart, that hurt and pain and loss, of the faces of dead ones and the words forever unsaid, and she opens her eyes and Prim is grinning up at her and they dance like they've always been dancing.

Mother joins, sometimes, when she remembers the song playing. Mother hums it under her breath and sways softly, and when they are all dancing to the music she thinks they've done it.

They've survived.

* * *

She has no reason for crying.

It just comes, out of the blue, and it stays with her.

When she's on the bed, face tilted up at the window and the sky, she does nothing and she can stay there forever. She thinks she can, because there is nothing happening, nothing thinking, nothing living.

Then it comes as a shock to her when she gasps for breaths, and water runs down her eyes. Fear catches up to her in the next moment, and her hands tremble for something to grasp.

Nights are long, and dawns are even longer. The sun demands life, and that is something she doubts.

* * *

She's not in her right mind, he tells her. She doesn't think she ever would be. It's not something she can decide to be, especially not after all she have done, and that's another thing she has no control over. No choices. No decisions. No nothing.

He is not right in the head, she tells him. He just laughs.

She wants to be crueler, she wants to be harsher. So, she kisses him.

It feels right in the moment. It feels better when he hits her.

They don't do anything else, whenever she goes over.

* * *

_This dream isn't feeling sweet  
_ _We're reeling through the midnight streets_   
_And I've never felt more alone_   
_It feels so scary, getting old_

* * *

One days she knocks, and he doesn't answer. She screams at the door, because she can, and he doesn't answer.

She sits down on the porch.

She doesn't know where else to go.

It's the Nothing she fears. It's the nothingness, the churning inside her, eating up her wants. It's the echoes in her ears, the deadness in her eyes, and the spiraling swirling music in her mind.

It's spilling over, and she cries out, head in her hands. The snow drifts to a stop above her, as if she is a statue, broken still, and her body keeps shaking.

Her skin burns, where flesh meets ice. Sparks of dead, dead fire.

The door opens behind her.

"You have to stop doing that, sweetheart," he says, voice resigned and sarcastic and tired and mocking, and she stands, looks back at him.

It's nothing and everything, at the same time.

* * *

She never stops. And _that,_ is her choice.

* * *

_I want 'em back_   
_The minds we had_   
_How all the thoughts_   
_Moved 'round our heads_

_I want 'em back_   
_The minds we had_   
_It's not enough to feel the lack_   
_I want 'em back, I want 'em back, I want 'em_


End file.
